


Roses and Thorns

by IreneADonovan



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Artist Erik, Bottom Erik Lehnsherr, D/s overtones, M/M, That are turning into full-on D/s, Venture Capitalist Charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/pseuds/IreneADonovan
Summary: Artist Erik. Venture capitalist Charles. Not much plot but plenty of smut...





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fullmetalcarer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fullmetalcarer/gifts), [pinkoptics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkoptics/gifts).



> I was inspired by Fullmetalcarer and egged on by pinkoptics. Thanks to you both. <3 <3

This could be his big break. A show at a tony gallery. A chance to be seen by big-name buyers, big-name critics. So why the hell did he just want to run?

He'd been working toward this for more than a decade, but now it was feeling like a hollow victory. These people wouldn't understand him or his work, would only see the polished pretty-boy he was dressed up as. No one would see the scruffy kid who'd all but starved to buy paint and canvases, who'd worn paint-stained t-shirts and jeans because he owned nothing else.

He yanked his tie off, stuffed it in his jacket pocket, unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt so he could breathe again. He couldn't do this. This wasn't him.

He'd just turned toward the door, ready to bolt, when a man entered who commanded his attention. He strode into the gallery like he owned it, bearing regal, expression imperious. He was relatively short, but he carried himself as if he were a head taller. His hair was deep chestnut, combed back, but with a stubborn wave. His eyes were an exquisite blue, flashing fire like star sapphires. His nose was a tad long, but it gave his face a character and depth it would otherwise have lacked. His skin was a luminous ivory dusted with tawny freckles, and his lips were vibrant crimson, obscured only slightly by a precisely-trimmed beard nearly as red as Erik's own. He wore a perfectly-tailored black suit with a black-and-grey tie, and he carried an ebony walking stick.

His eyes swept the room, cataloguing, analyzing, the space, the art, the people. He locked eyes with Erik, appraised him, then improbably, licked his lips.

Erik held his gaze, considered, decided what the hell. He gave a small nod.

Maybe too small. The man turned away, sought out the gallery owner, Emma Frost. She was his perfect foil, as cool and blonde and remote as he was intense and dark and forceful. As he watched them converse, Erik tried not to feel disappointed.

Then the man turned and stalked toward him like a tiger on the prowl, majestic and dangerous, never breaking eye contact. “I'm Charles,” he declared as he drew near, his voice smooth as polished glass, his accent upper-class English.

“Erik.”

'Did I tell you to speak?”

Stunned but inexplicably turned on, Erik shook his head.

“Follow me.”

Those magnetic eyes compelled him, and he nodded agreement.

Charles walked toward a door Erik knew led to a small conference room. Erik glanced about furtively as he trailed behind, wondering if they would be challenged, unsure whether he should welcome or mourn such an intrusion.

But no one so much as looked their way.

Charles locked the door behind them. “Hands on the table,” he ordered.

Erik leaned over and placed his hands on the table, heart jackhammering in his throat.

Charles' walking stick traced the line of his hip and outer thigh, then slid up his inner thigh to press against his balls. “Do you know why I came here tonight, Erik?” His voice was fierce and seductive.

Erik bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing the urge to speak. _To get laid?_

“Very good,” Charles purred. “You remembered.” His hand skimmed down Erik's back, caressed his left ass cheek. “I came here looking for a work of art, a masterpiece. And I think I found one.” A hard squeeze, then the hand retreated. “So take off those clothes so I can see if I'm right.”

Erik lowered his head, nodded once in silent compliance as his fingers found his shirt buttons.

Charles took a step back, watching, waiting.

Erik opened his shirt, shrugged it and his jacket off, toed his shoes off, unzipped his trousers. He took a steadying breath, shoved both pants and boxers down to his ankles, and stepped out of them.

Charles sucked in a sharp breath. “Masterpiece indeed.” He pulled a tube if lubricant from his jacket pocket, slapped it on the table. “Prep yourself.”

Erik snatched up the lube and squeezed some onto his index finger. He reached behind himself, worked his finger into his asshole, twisting and circling to begin loosening the tight ring of muscle. He braced his hip against the table, his eyes half-closing in concentration.

Charles watched him silently, lips parted, the tip of his tongue just touching his upper lip. His gaze never wavered as he pulled out a chair and dropped onto it. He folded his arms, his expression clearly saying, “Impress me.”

Erik worked a second finger in and began finger-fucking himself, his fingers driving in, twisting, stretching, scissoring, in a steady driving rhythm.

His cock was taking happy notice of the proceedings, and Erik reached for it without thinking. But before his hand could close on his shaft, that walking stick blocked his arm. Charles said not a word; there was no need. Erik let his hand fall to his side.

He worked in a third finger, stretching himself as far open as he thought he would get, then he locked eyes with Charles, giving a faint nod as he let lis fingers slide out of his well-greased hole.

Charles smiled, an almost predatory leer, and got to his feet. He undid his fly, pushed trousers and underwear down to mid-thigh. His cock was well-proportioned, uncut, red as those sinful lips, already hard and starting to leak, jutting from a thatch of dark curls.

Charles took a condom from his pocket, tore open the foil, and rolled the rubber onto his cock. He held out a hand, and Erik dropped the lube onto his palm. Charles greased his cock, positioned himself behind Erik, pressed the blunt head of his cock against Erik's hole and slowly pushed in.

Even with all the prep, it was still initially a bit uncomfortable. He stiffened, and Charles held himself motionless until Erik's body accommodated the intrusion.

Then Charles pulled most of the way back out, pushed in again. Erik's body tolerated the move much better this time, and Charles barely had to pause before repeating.

Erik laid his forearms flat on the table, bracing himself as Charles set his hands on Erik's hips and began driving into him, slowly at first, then with merciless abandon. He found Erik's prostate, and the burst of searing pleasure had Erik biting his lip to keep from crying out.

Charles must have sensed what had happened because he did it again. And again. And again, until Erik was a mindless, quivering mass of jelly. Nor did he stop then. He pounded relentlessly into Erik until his rhythm became frantic, until his orgasm was ripped from him as he shuddered and gasped and swore.

He reached around and grasped Erik's cock, stroking it with strong, lightly-callused hands, and that was all Erik needed to come himself.

Charles slumped against Erik's back for a minute, then pulled out and discarded the condom in the wastebasket. He pulled up his pants, rearranged the rest of his clothing.

He took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Erik. “Clean yourself up. I'll be in touch.” And with that he picked up his walking stick and turned for the door.


	2. Second Meeting

Erik was screwed. Figuratively speaking. It had been almost a week since the gallery opening, and he hadn't been able to concentrate on anything. Not his work. Not the novel he'd been reading. Not even the Yankees games on the radio.

All he could think of was sapphire eyes and ruby lips. Those eyes that had lured him, held him hypnotized, stripped away his will. Those lips that had commanded him in with steely words cloaked in silk-soft tones.

It has felt astonishingly natural to yield to that quiet authority. Erik had been on his own a long time, was used to keeping no counsel but his own. So why had this man, who by all appearances was steeped in the entitlement and privilege Erik railed against, been so easily able to gain Erik's submission?

Erik took a swallow of cold coffee, stared out the window. He couldn't go on like this. He had to find a way to chase the man's voice from his ears, his image from his brain.

He went to his stereo, selected Metallica's black album. Something loud, something angry, something to drown out those honeyed tones. He turned the volume up, grateful most of his neighbors would still be at work.

Then he took a sketch pad and his favorite pencils and settled on the couch, prepared to draw whatever the music suggested.

But even this didn't work. Instead of nightmares and images of urban decay, he saw sapphire eyes flashing fire and crimson lips clamped tight in disapproval.

Well, shit.

So maybe if he gave in and drew him, he might exorcise the man from his mind. Maybe. He didn't have any real hope, but it was worth a try. He chose his hardest pencil and began a rough outline.

Hours later, he was still there, still haunted, driven, unsatisfied. He threw his pencil down in disgust. No matter how many times he tried, he just couldn't capture the essence of the man. The features, yes, but not the attitude, that air of command. So he'd turned to studies of those eyes, those lips, drawing them again and again, sometimes in their technicolor glory, more often in the grey shades and textures of graphite, filling still more pages.

He'd been about to move on to the man's hands -- small, square, blunt-fingered, at odds with his patrician bearing -- when his doorbell buzzed. Puzzled, he flipped his sketch pad shut and went to answer it.

Only to find himself face-to-face with the man of his dreams/nightmares/fantasies. “Charles?”

He was dressed far more casually today in dark-wash jeans and a sky-blue button-down open at the throat. The shirt made the brilliant sapphire of his eyes even more vivid. His demeanor was also different, more open, less arrogant. ”Hello, Erik, he said, and even his voice was subtly changed -- warmer and richer, though with the same high-society accent. “I came to speak with you about a commission.”

Not a good time, unless he wanted the commission to be a portrait of himself.

“Are you going to invite me in?” And there it was, that aura of command, though his words were couched as a question. He still carried a cane, this one of blond wood, Erik noticed, and he was leaning on it a bit as he waited. Was it more than just a prop?

Erik stepped aside, gestured for Charles to enter.

Charles walked past him, and he was definitely moving more stiffly than he had at the opening.

“Have a seat.” Erik gestured at the couch and loveseat. “Can I get you a beer?” Stupid. Charles wasn't the type of guy who drank beer.

But Charles surprised him yet again. “Beer would be good,” he said with just a hint of that commanding tone, then he lowered himself onto the loveseat with a wince he couldn't quite hide.

Erik snagged two bottles of beer from the kitchen, popped off the tops, and returned to the main room. He handed one to Charles, then re-settled himself on the couch, limbs sprawled, body language open, challenging rather than submitting.

Charles cocked a brow, seeming to say _So that's how you want to play it?_

Erik gave him a grin, one of the ones people always said made him look like a shark.

Charles gave a subtle nod, and his brow rose a bit more. _We'll see._ He took a sip of his beer, then another, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise.

Of course it was good beer; he was German. But that was beside the point. “You said something about a commission?”

“I did. I want you to do a portrait montage for me.” He withdrew a flash drive from his pocket. “My sister's an actress, and I want a montage of some of her roles for her birthday. Two months.”

More than enough time, provided he could break the spell of the blue eyes regarding him now. He took the drive, dragged his laptop across the coffee table, and plugged in the drive. “Let me take a look at what you've got.”

What he had was the last thing Erik expected. “Raven? She's your sister? Raven Darkholme?”

“You know her?” Charles sounded equally surprised.

“Through her boyfriend, Azazel. He and I go way back.”

Charles chuckled. “It really is a small world.”

But that meant Charles was Charles Xavier. One of the country's richest men. Venture capitalist. Had his fingers in a thousand pies. Including Emma Frost's gallery. “Son of a bitch,” Erik said. “You set that whole thing up.”

Charles looked puzzled. “Pardon?”

But Erik wasn't buying his innocent act. “You lied to me. You _used_ me. You're Emma's partner -- you knew who I was all along.” Erik's voice had grown soft and deadly cold.

“Silent partner,” Charles countered. “I'd seen your work, but I had no idea you were the artist until I asked Emma that night if she knew you.”

Erik remained unconvinced.

“Had I known who you were, I wouldn't have waited until the opening to make my move.” Charles' demeanor shifted abruptly. “I know what I like, and I'm not shy about pursuing it.”

Erik shivered under that penetrating stare. “And if I'd said no?”

“If you'd said no, I'd have walked away. Submission isn't submission unless it's freely given.”

“That's a contradiction.”

“Is it?” Those sapphire eyes continued to bore into him. “If I demanded you strip for me right now, would you? Or would you tell me no, we conclude our business, and I leave you to your work?”

Erik looked at his sketch pad, then back at those mesmeric blue eyes. “Stay,” he said quietly, wanting to hate himself for needing this, but needing it nonetheless. “I'm yours to command.”

A filthy smile spread across Charles' face, and his spine stiffened, all traces of casualness gone in a moment. He unfastened his jeans and pulled his cock out of his underwear as Erik watched, mouth practically watering. “Blow me,” Charles commanded.

But Erik hesitated. Not something he was a big fan of doing.

“Blow me,” Charles repeated. “Get on your knees and blow me.”

And g-d help him, Erik dropped to his knees and reached for Charles' cock.

“No hands,” Charles said. “Hands behind your back. Just your mouth.”

Erik clasped his hands behind his back, unclasped them, re-clasped them. This was going to be awkward.

“Now, Erik, or I tie your hands.”

Erik was surprisingly turned on by that threat, but he bent to take Charles' cock into his mouth. It was beginning to harden, pulsing and jumping as his lips closed around the head.

Charles let out a soft hiss.

Erik slid slowly down the shaft, his tongue swirling around the head and probing the slit.

Charles was hardening rapidly, but he otherwise remained motionless. “I said blow me, not tease me, so get on with it before I need to punish you.” The words were delivered in that quiet, ominous tone.

A part of Erik, a rather large part, and not his own hardening cock, was tempted to delay and find out just what a punishment from Charles would entail, but he wouldn't, not this time. An even larger part of himself yearned to prove to Charles he could submit.

He pushed down, taking in as much of Charles as he could, the tip of his nose just brushing the dark curls that encircled the root of his penis, then he pulled back swiftly, his tongue and teeth grazing along the length of the shaft.

Charles' breath caught and quickened, and out of the corners of his eyes, Erik could see Charles' hands knot into fists.

Erik bobbed up and down, warming to his task. Why had he thought he didn't like this? Charles' cock was just the perfect size for Erik's mouth and throat; on each downstroke, the head struck a point just shy of triggering Erik's gag reflex.

Charles' iron control was slipping now. His hands dug into the couch cushions, his abs and thighs strained as they fought the urge to snap his hips forward and drive his cock into Erik's mouth, and soft panting moans were escaping his throat.

Erik redoubled his efforts, and it wasn't long until Charles started to come. Charles seized Erik's head, fingers tangling in Erik's hair, holding him in place. “Swallow it,” he ordered.

Erik tried, but it was too much, too fast. His hands whipped around, braced against the couch, shoved backwards until he was free.

He straightened, staring defiantly at Charles.

Charles didn't look precisely angry, just disappointed. And sated. “That was very good,” he said, “until the end.”

Erik said nothing, but he felt his defiance withering under the weight of Charles' disapproval.

“There will be consequences,” Charles said as he studied Erik. His gaze fixed on the bulge in Erik's jeans, then he took that damnable walking stick and rubbed its head over Erik's crotch.

Erik groaned. His cock was already steel-hard and aching, and that caress just fanned the flame.

Then Charles pulled the cane away, leaving painful need in its wake.

Charles' smile was wolfish. “You are not to touch yourself until I contact you again. If you do, I will know. If you lie about it, I will know.” He plucked a rubber band off the coffee table, one of the ones Erik used to keep his pencils together, and snapped it onto Erik's wrist. “Let this be your reminder.”

Erik could only nod.

Charles' voice grew cheerier, lost the note of command. “Now which way to your bathroom. I need to freshen up.”


	3. Office Sex

If Erik had thought he had been obsessed before Charles' visit, it was nothing compared to the agony he was in afterward. And he didn't mean the massive case of blue balls Charles had left him with.

Though that hadn't helped. His cock had been exquisitely sensitive; every move that had rubbed it against his jeans had been torture. But he hadn't trusted himself not to touch himself to keep his hands away if he shed that protective denim barrier, and he was sure Charles would know, somehow, if he did touch himself. Finally, in desperation, he'd stepped into an ice-cold shower, fully clothed. That had worked, at least on the immediate problem.

But Erik remained obsessed with the man, able to think if little else, able to see nothing else in his mind's eye. He'd filled two sketchbooks with images of Charles -- standing, sitting, his face, his eyes, his lips, his hands, his cock. But he could never capture the essence of the man, that aura of command he wielded like a weapon.

Maybe he needed to try a different medium. The pencils weren't working, though they were his favorites. He'd always enjoyed reducing the world to texture and tone, to the play of light and dark the Italians had named _chiaroscuro_. But Charles' lips and eyes demanded color.

Erik gathered his pencils, bound them with a new rubber band -- the old one was still around his wrist -- and set them and his sketchbook on the coffee table. He rose, detoured past the kitchen for a beer, and went to his easel.

He selected a Masonite board already prepped with gesso, set it on the easel, then took a seat on his work stool, studying the blank white surface for a minute, visualizing the the image he wanted, then he picked up a pencil from his work table and started to sketch an outline.

Once he'd roughed out the image, he set the pencil down and went to change into his painting clothes -- an old black t-shirt and threadbare jeans, both liberally paint-stained. Then he fetched a fresh jar if water and returned to his easel.

He studied the collection of paint tubes, squeezed out black, white, and cerulean blue, intending to block out the large areas. For the background, he mixed a small amount of blue into the white, wanting a pale color that would echo Charles' eyes. He worked quickly, laying down a smooth layer that he would add highlight and shadow to later. Then he mixed a small amount of white into the black and used the result as the background shade for Charles' suit.

He was nearly finished with that when his phone buzzed with a text. He cleaned his brush and his hands, then retrieved his phone.

 **Come to me. As you are. Now.** And an address. No signature and not a number he recognized. But it was Charles. He was sure of it.

He shivered in anticipation.

As you are, it said. He glanced down at his homeless-boy-chic clothing. So be it. He had the sense that Charles would know if he changed. He snagged his wallet and his keys, jammed them and his phone into his pockets, and headed out.

The address led him to a gleaming office tower. The guard at the desk eyed him warily, then skeptically when he said Charles Xavier was expecting him. But the man made a call, checked Erik's ID, then directed him to the fifteenth floor.

Where he was greeted by a secretary who barely blinked at his paint-stained clothes. “You must be the artist. Mr. Xavier is expecting you. You can go right in.” She pointed to a door on her left.

Erik went to the door, panelled wood in rich tones, probably worth more than he made in a good month. He rested one hand on the polished knob, knocked with the other.

“Come.” Charles' voice, clear, strong, imperious.

Erik opened the door and stepped in. The office was nearly as big as his entire apartment. Charles sat behind a massive mahogany desk that should have made him look small, but he commanded the space in that way he had.

Erik had a sudden image of himself bent over that desk while Charles fucked his brains out.

His mouth went dry and his cock swelled.

Those sapphire eyes glittered hungrily as they fixed on Erik's crotch. “It seems someone's happy to see me.”

Erik glanced down, feeling his cheeks flush.

“And I suppose you think it's time to do something about that.”

Think? More like pray.

“Have you been good, Erik?” Charles' voice was smooth and seductive as silk.

Erik nodded.

“Speak up.”

“I have.”

Charles rose and circled the desk. He was moving more fluidly today. “Have you really? You wouldn't lie to me, would you?”

“Yes to the first. No to the second.”

Charles came close, cupped Erik's cock through the worn fabric. “I'm feeling generous, so I'll believe you. But I can't help but wonder how you restrained yourself. I left you in quite a state.”

Erik cursed his fair redhead's skin, knowing his face had flushed even more.

Charles squeezed his cock, and Erik shuddered.

“Tell me how.” Charles' grip tightened, pleasure on the razor's edge of pain.

“Cold shower,” Erik admitted. “Fully clothed.”

Charles let out a bark of laughter. “That would do it.”

All too well. The memory alone was almost enough to make Erik's cock deflate. Almost.

Charles' other hand reached around and squeezed his ass. “I've been thinking about this ass all week. So when my afternoon appointments both cancelled, I thought I'd take advantage.” His voice was a sensual purr. “Do you want me to take advantage of you?”

“Yes.” He did. God help him, but he did.

“Then drop those jeans.” Charles smacked his ass with the flat of his hand, hard enough to smart. Hard enough for his cock to take notice.

As Charles returned to his desk and cleared away the files he'd been perusing, Erik pushed his jeans and boxers to his knees. Charles opened a drawer, surveyed the contents, then withdrew a hairbrush with a large oval head. He flashed Erik a nasty smile and said, “Did I neglect to mention what I wanted to do to that ass?”

Erik swallowed, a little nervous but undeniably turned on.

“Do you want me to spank you, Erik?”

“Yes.”

“Then ask. Politely.”

“Please spank me, Charles. Please.”

“Bend over. Arms on the desk.”

Erik moved into position, forearms braced flat on the desk, and Charles circled behind him.

“Ask me again.”

“Please spank me.”

Whack.

The sound was startling, and Erik flinched a little. The blow stung, but not badly.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Three solid strikes, and this time Erik was ready and stood rock solid.

“Very good.” Lighter blows now, peppered all over his ass.

Charles alternated the harder blows with the gentler ones until Erik's ass and upper thighs burned. Erik suspected their color was approaching that of Charles' lips.

The blows halted. “Are you hard, Erik?” he practically purred the words as he reached around to finger Erik's cock. “Lovely.”

Charles went around the desk, opened the drawer he'd taken the brush from. He returned the brush, withdrew two condoms and a tube of lube.

Erik shivered in anticipation.

Charles returned, ripped open one foil packet, rolled the condom onto Erik's cock. “I will not have you make a mess on my desk.”

Erik suppressed a groan when Charles' hand withdrew.

“Good things come to those who wait.” Erik could see Charles from the corner of his eye, watched as Charles opened his fly and rolled the other condom onto his own cock.

Charles leaned close enough for Erik to feel his breath on his ear. “Or perhaps a good come.” His index finger circled Erik's hole, cool against the heated flesh, then it retreated, returning a minute later, slicked with lube.

Charles coaxed him open, gentle and patient, as he described all the things Erik's ass inspired him to want to do. And Charles had quite an imagination.

To Erik's surprise, even the kinky stuff sounded promising. He especially liked the sound of being bound naked in Charles' bed.

Once Charles was satisfied Erik was ready, he withdrew his fingers. Erik whimpered at the loss. No, scratch that. He didn't whimper. Except he had.

Charles pushed into him in one smooth motion.

Erik gasped, tensed, relaxed as Charles held himself motionless.

“Am I good to go?” Charles asked.

“Yes.”

Charles withdrew most of the way, pushed back in, repeated, repeated, repeated. It wasn't the frenzied pace of their first coupling, but it was glorious.

Then Charles nailed his prostate, and it went from glorious to mind blowing.

He couldn't have said how long he soared in that state of mindless ecstasy. Forever. Not nearly long enough.

But all good things had to come to an end. As did the sublime. Erik felt Charles' pace become erratic, knew Charles was about to come.

Charles reached around, gripped Erik's cock, pumped it once, twice, as his cock found Erik's prostate one more time and he pulled Erik over the edge with him.

Erik was left boneless, exhausted, exultant.

Charles slumped against him for a minute, then he pulled his softening cock out and straightened. “This weekend,” he said. “Come with me to Westchester. We'll do some of the things I described.” It wasn't a request.

Erik was in. He was so in.

“Now go use my shower to clean up. I'll join you.”

In over his head.


End file.
